You’ve always been a terrible liar.
I memorised every envelope you sent back.
Held them.
Counted them.
Stacked them in the corner of a cell and stared at them until the walls bled.
This one—the one you’re holding right now—was the first.
You didn’t even hesitate.
Didn’t even pretend.
They handed it to you.
You saw my name.
And you ran.
I kept writing anyway.
I wrote until my fingers cramped.
Until the skin split.
Until the ink stained so deep I couldn’t wash it off.
And you still sent everything back.
Except now you’re holding it.
Now you’re touching the thing that broke me.
Good.
You should feel it.
You should feel every ounce of the damage you did.
I know where you live.
(Surprised? Don’t be.)
I know what time you come home.
I know how you rub your arms when you’re anxious.
I know how you try not to look over your shoulder even when you feel me there.
You don’t sleep well.
You breathe too fast.
You curl in on yourself like you’re bracing for impact.
You feel me.
